


An Invigorating Date

by ChastityHollister



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-16 01:03:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChastityHollister/pseuds/ChastityHollister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Speed dating. John's there because his mates forced him to go, Sherlock's there to catch a murderer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Invigorating Date

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [a kink meme prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/20063.html?thread=120332383#t120332383). Warnings at the end of the fic.

The bell chimes, and with a smile and a nod to Leticia (Lottie? Laila?), John gets up and shuffles to the next tiny table with its tense and smiling single woman. Ten down, five to go. 

"SinglesClub 30-45 - Make a Connection Today!" say that you feel attraction or not within the first 30 seconds. Anything more than that just gives you time to put your foot in your mouth. Murray says John desperately needs to get out of his bedsit and meet people, and no way would he talk to a woman, let alone 15, without his mates forcing him to.

John suspects they're both right. This farce of a meat market at least involves far less awkward small talk than the single female acquaintances the guys have foisted on him to entertain during their game nights. The adrenaline kick of walking over to a complete stranger and blatantly hitting on her isn't bad either. Too bad he can feel the lack of attraction to each nervous and fragile woman within half a minute.

Kat laughs coquettishly at his small joke, and John smiles back warmly. She has a tic by her eye, and her hands are unnaturally rigid. Probably trying not to fidget. She seems nice, and John pities her. He wants to tell her to forget about dating, and get a life - but he isn't one to talk, is he.

The bell chimes again. Eleven down, four to go. Then he'll go have a pint in the pub he noticed on the way here. Maybe even talk to a woman who isn't anxiously aware of being scored on a card.

"Hi, I'm John. Pleased to meet you," he tells the new one. Her name tag says "3". 

"Shirley," she says. "Charmed."

Her voice is very deep. She has a prominent adam's apple, and large hands. Unlike the others, she appears utterly unselfconscious as she blatantly gives him the once over, lingering on his ears and hands.

John can't help grinning at her. He can't tell if she's trans and doing a poor job of passing, or if she's a man in a dress taking the piss, but whoever she is, she's got some balls. 

"You're a doctor, I perceive," Shirley says, staring at his left sleeve with her striking, pale eyes.

"Yes, I'm a GP. What do you do?" John wants to know how she knew that. Maybe she has very keen hearing, or can read lips? But they only have five minutes to talk, and there are other things he's curious about.

She raises her chin challengingly. "I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world."

"Really? Who do you consult with, insurance agencies and such?"

Shirley sneers, and slouches down in her chair like a schoolboy, steepling her long, bony fingers over her stomach. "Hardly. I lend my services to Scotland Yard when they're out of their depth. Which is always." She quirks an eyebrow at him, as if to underline her statement.

John wants to ruffle her curls, and praise her for what a bold and daring puppy she is. So brave! So nonconformist! He really is growing out of touch with other people; he didn't use to be so distant and judgmental. But at the same time, Shirley's provocative behavior charms him and teases his funny bone where it would only have grated, when John was more normal.

"You aren't here meet women."

John blinks at the abrupt change of topic. 

Shirley holds up a hand. "Ah! Don't tell me. I want to work it out for myself. You are heterosexual, the way you look at the women's breasts and lips demonstrate that. You showered and shaved shortly before coming here, which shows you don't want to lose face, but at the same time, you're wearing an off-the-rack suit several years out of style, rather than anything smart or flattering. You care about being seen to make the effort, rather than displaying yourself advantageously.

"You answer your partner politely and attentively, so you are not here to mock or feel superior; your posture loosens when the chime sounds - you are relieved when the five minutes are over. You have not glanced at any number tags of any women as you got up, as you have no intention of marking them on your card.

"Your collar and tie were straightened by someone wearing a rather disgusting, cheap aftershave. Someone with mustard on their hand clapped you on the shoulder - it is the only stain on your recently dry-cleaned suit.

"You are a GP, your watch, shoes and cane are new and of good quality. You display no signs of substance abuse. With your position and income, and being heterosexual, you should have no problem meeting women.

"Conclusion: your friends pressured you into coming here, probably because they're worried you are becoming a recluse. You aren't ready to meet anyone, but you want to make a good faith effort partly to appease them, partly because you believe they are right about your mental health. Which likely they are, given your obvious military background and psychosomatic limp.

"How did I do?"

John feels bowled over, unclothed by this rapid-fire deconstruction of him. Left naked and trembling and exhilarated in front of all these people. Fiercely alive.

"Amazing! You're amazing. How do you do that?" The room is pulsing brightly around him in time with his heart-beat, and sounds are a smeary roar. His cock is hard, and he wants to fight or fuck, or run far and fast. To do something to get the electric jitters out which Shirley's forceful stripping has put in him.

She smiles, wide and happy. "I'm a genius. You should read my website, 'The Science of Deduction', if you'd like to learn about my methods. I also write up some of my more interesting cases there. Tonight I shall explain how I worked out that number seven over there," she nods at the man sitting to John's left, "is the serial killer the police have fruitlessly been seeking for weeks."

Number seven's head jerks around, and he stares at Shirley in frozen shock for a moment. Then he bolts. John isn't aware of jumping up before he hears his chair clatter to the floor behind him. His blood is up, and this is perfect. He feels like he is flying, his arms and legs pumping like a well-oiled machine, his breath a powerful whoosh that fuels him efficiently and carries him along.

He follows the man into the corridor, towards the fire exit. Wait staff jump out of their way, shrieking and clutching at tottering trays, but John is nimble and effortlessly slaloms around people and furniture. The man's hands slam down on the bar of the exit, just as John reaches him, and the alarm starts to blare. He falls on top of him, wrenching his arm behind him and putting his knee in the small of his back, half in and half out.

The man scrapes his cheek against the asphalt, and bumps his head on Shirley's foot. Somehow she reached the exit the man was heading for from the outside at the same time as them. John looks up at her, and sees her holding a mobile. She's texting.

"Good job, number eight," she says. "The police are on their way, please continue restraining the suspect until they arrive."

She puts her phone in her handbag with a satisfied air, then easily strides over John and the writhing, moaning man lying in the doorway. John is hit with a sudden stab of fear that the only interesting thing to happen to him for months is over.

"Wait!" He wrenches the man up, and drags him inside. Shirley is standing in the corridor, looking stiff and uncomfortable, while the "SinglesClub 30-45" manager is blubbering all over her, getting mascara on her shirt.

"Thank you, thank you, Mr. Holmes," she cries. "We were so scared! So frightened! We thought the speed dating industry had been killed by this horrible murderer!"

Shirley - Mr. Holmes - rolls his eyes.

"The speed dating industry is safe, Ms. Sawyer, and so are your clients. I hope you'll forgive me if I don't finish the round as agreed, as I believe my cover has now been blown."

"The round! We need to hand out score cards! But not everyone has had the opportunity to chat with everyone!" The manager gives John a harried look. "We will be right with you with a complimentary drink and a score card, to help you connect with those lovely ladies who have expressed a mutual interest, sir." Her gaze lingers on the now limp and weeping man John is clutching, then skips over him to the gawking crowd. "If you'll all just congregate in the lounge again, we will be right with you, ladies and gentlemen."

Holmes fiddles with the crumpled and stained shoulder of his silk blouse, and sneaks sly peaks at John.

"I'd love to hear all about how you cracked this case," John says. "Would you like to grab a pint with me, after the police have done their thing?"

Holmes grins, the same delighted smile lighting up his face again, as if he is not used to receiving praise from others.

"That could take hours. You're better off tying him to that radiator, and I'll go get our coats and your cane."

Johns ends up waiting for the police, and giving a preliminary statement, before they are let off with a promise to come to the station tomorrow. Holmes takes him to an excellent Chinese restaurant, and while he is in the loo straightening his make-up, John texts Murray: "Thank you. You were right."

**Author's Note:**

> Disparaging thoughts about women who speed date. John's opinions do not reflect the author's opinion. Back to top.


End file.
